I Won't Tell
by Freya Ishtar
Summary: AU. A bad storm and downed cell towers lead Lydia into a very interesting situation with Beacon Hills High School's most crush-worthy teacher, one Mr. Peter Hale. Will the secret they come to share be theirs, alone, to keep? MATURE CONTENT *will contain supernatural elements, (Summary correction- story being expanded from 'two-shot' to multi-chapter fic)
1. I Won't Tell

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Depending on reader response, I _may_ expand this. Please do not misunderstand, this isn't a "I'll only update this if I get reviews," no, I don't do that; I do not hold plunnies, or readers, hostage. I have a lot of writing-related work going on right now, so if I do decide to continue this beyond chapter 2, it might get put on the backburner, however, if people_ really_ like it, then I will attempt to move it forward into some semblance of a schedule. A writing schedule I will be putting together as soon as my kids are out of school for the summer.

((And WHY did I write this? Because Ian Bohen [Peter Hale] would be the epitome of the 'hot, crush-worthy' high school teacher. If you don't like this pairing, do NOT read this, flames will be immediately reported. And yes, Derek will be showing up. ;D))

* * *

**Disclaimer: **_Teen Wolf _and all respective themes and characters property of MTV Productions

* * *

**I Won't Tell . . . .**

Lydia shrieked behind closed lips, banging her palms against the steering wheel. This would be the day her car had engine trouble. She dug her phone out of her purse and dialed her mother—if the woman wasn't in a meeting right now, surely she'd be able to get away from the office to give her own daughter a lift home during a thunderstorm. She couldn't hear a ring. Pulling the phone away to frown at it, she realized there was no signal. The weather must be affecting the cell towers.

_Perfect._

She would just have to go use the office phone in the school. Accept that she was in the far end of the student parking lot . . . and she had no umbrella. Uttering a thin, wordless whine, she let her forehead drop down on the steering wheel. Oh, well, no one would be there to see her look like a drowned rat except the secretary. Though she dreaded to think what the downpour would do to her impeccably applied makeup.

Cringing, she held her purse over her head with one hand and forced the car door open with the other. Slamming it shut, she bolted immediately for the shelter of the school; the rain-slick asphalt proved quite the challenge for her platform wedge-heels.

As she reached the school entrance, Lydia was mildly surprised her feet hadn't slid out from under her once. Of course, that did nothing to wipe away the other effects of her half-minute dash. Her hair hung around her shoulders in long, dripping clumps and her blouse and skirt were plastered against her skin.

She sighed miserably as she pulled the door open and hurried into the lobby.

* * *

The girl was in such a rush, she didn't even see him as she scurried past his classroom door. She was so close, she nearly bumped right into him as he'd tried to step into the corridor, too.

For a moment, he didn't recognize her—not that he was complaining about the chance to watch her jogging down the hall from behind as he figured it out. If not for recognizing the outfit as one that had been seated at a desk in his classroom an hour earlier, he'd be clueless. True that it looked different now, and pressed to her like a second skin, it offered a scandalous view of curves at which her usual attire _clearly_ only hinted.

"Ms. Martin?"

* * *

Lydia froze instantly. How could she not recognize that voice instantly? It belonged to the only teacher in school worth having a crush on. She didn't want to turn, didn't want those gorgeous eyes to take her in while she looked like _this_, but she'd already halted at her name, she couldn't simply pretend now that she hadn't heard him.

Turning on a heel, she forced a smile, though she let the expression appear a pained effort. "Hi, Mr. Hale."

* * *

There was something oddly charming about the mascara dripping down her cheeks, giving the affect as though she'd been crying. What man wouldn't knock over everyone in his path to dry _her _tears?

Of course, the way her satin, v-neck blouse clung to her—offering a faint glimpse of a dark, frilly bra underneath—didn't hurt. Well, he was certainly thinking very bad things, wasn't he?

Shaking his head at himself, he gave her a warm smile, pushing the terribly wayward—not to mention, technically _illegal_—thoughts aside. She obviously needed help, and well, she didn't need to know that he _wasn't_ oblivious to what the female student population saw when they looked at him. After all, it could hardly be called conceit to simply be aware of one's own good looks.

"Are you alright?"

* * *

Lydia had to remind herself to speak, had to consciously focus on not watching his lips while he talked. They weren't in a filled classroom now; they were face-to-face. He'd notice the direction of her gaze if she looked at him now the way she did when he was in front of the blackboard.

"Um, yeah—yes. I'm fine, I just . . ." she shrugged, laughing mirthlessly at herself. "My car won't start, and the storm seems to have knocked out cell service, so I was going to use the office phone."

* * *

He frowned, glancing down the corridor in the direction of the general office. She was really having rotten luck today, wasn't she? "I'm sorry, but I think everyone but the janitor is already gone for the day, and God knows where he is. They wanted to beat the brunt of the storm. Why are _you _here now? It's almost four o'clock." As far as he was aware, all afterschool activities had been cancelled due to the weather.

"I was in the library studying and lost track of the time," she explained with a helpless shrug.

"I see." He didn't relish the idea of being in close quarters with her, not when simply standing in an empty hall with her was making him think devilish thoughts, but helping her was the gentlemanly thing to do. "I can offer you a ride home."

* * *

Lydia blinked several times, processing that scenario. Her, in a car, alone . . . with Mr. Hale. She would have to be a lot more on-guard of her actions and facial expressions than she was being even now.

And it was this, or run around the school, hoping to find the janitor so he could let her into the office to use the phone.

"Sure," she finally managed to say.

She remained quiet as he closed and locked his classroom, as she followed him out to his car, forced to tuck herself into his side to make sure they both fit under his one-person umbrella. She pretended her sudden goose bumps were from the chill of the damp air, and not how closely she was pressed against him.

* * *

He wasn't certain if he was more relieved or frustrated when she peeled herself off him to slip into the passenger seat. As he climbed in and started up the car, the radio automatically kicked on. Words filtered through the ear-jarring amount of static, reporting closed roads due to downed streetlights.

Lydia groaned, letting her head fall back against the seat.

When he glanced over at her, she quickly gave her address. He sighed, switching off the radio. "From the sound of it, we're going to have to drive halfway around Beacon Hills and back just to get you home."

* * *

Even in a crisis, the man's smile was dazzling. She closed her eyes. Here she was looking like a raccoon, and he barely had a hair out of place. It just figured.

The ride was long, strained, and awkward. She felt a tension in their air between them. Perhaps she was imagining things, but she thought maybe he picked up on her attraction to him.

After an approximate twenty minutes, he stopped the car, leaning forward to peer through the windshield. "Where the hell are we?"

Muttering under his breath, he accelerated. He reached blindly for the glove compartment to retrieve a road map, unaware that she was resting a hand over the heater, blocking him.

* * *

She snatched her hand back as quickly as if he'd burned her. Looking up at him, their gazes met for a long, quiet moment.

Her reaction was a bit off-putting, even insulting. Was this girl disgusted by him? "My apologies."

* * *

There was some flicker in his expression. He was upset, but a moment earlier, when his skin brushed hers, she could have sworn . . . .

She glanced out the window, spying a building obscured just slightly by foliage. "Can you pull over here?"

His eyebrows shot up, looking around the deserted road quickly to emphasize his point. "There's nothing here."

"There's that," she replied, pointing. "And I need a restroom."

He repressed a sigh, pulling over and cutting the engine. When he made no move to get out, she arched a brow. "You're going to let me go alone?"

She could tell by the way he pressed his lips together, forming a thin, angry line that he wasn't happy right now. But who cared if _he_ was happy? She needed to test something.

"No, of course not," Mr. Hale said with a forced smoothness, grabbing the umbrella and exiting the car.

* * *

Once more, she plastered herself to his side beneath the umbrella as they rounded a stand of trees and stepped onto a cobblestone path. It had to be his imagination, but . . . was she standing more closely to him than she'd been before?

"It's a church," she said haltingly, almost stopping in her tracks.

"They _do_ have rest rooms," he said reasonably.

* * *

She nodded, feeling her courage waver a bit. "I guess you're right."

Something seemed off about the area. Not simply that there was no one about—in this storm, she'd be surprised if anyone else in the entire town was outdoors right now—but it wasn't until Mr. Hale pulled open one of the doors and ushered her inside that she realized what bothered her about the location.

He found a switch and flipped it on, bringing the half-ruined sanctuary into light.

Lydia forced a gulp down her throat as she took a few, uncertain steps forward. The altar and pulpit looked fine—polished, even new—while the rest of the church was a wreck of charred wood and broken pews, scattered hymnals. There'd been no sign from the outside of this sort of damage.

"I don't . . . ."

"I know where we are now," he said, his tone soft with the realization. His footfalls were quiet, but she could tell from his voice wasn't far behind her as he raked his gaze over the interior. "St. Charles'. Burnt about twenty years ago; I heard about it when I was . . . fifteen? They started to rebuild it, but . . . no one wanted to come back so they just . . . left it."

"Twenty years ago? Why do the lights work?"

"I think some of the grounds are still used for storage."

She nodded stiffly, wondering if she could still . . . check on what she was wondering about. "Why didn't anyone want to come back?"

"I believe one of the clergymen died in the fire."

"Oh," she lowered her head, taking a slow, deep breath. That was terrible. Surely, she couldn't do this _here_. But . . . .

She might never have a chance like this again.

"So I guess looking for a rest room here is out of the question," he observed, mildly amused.

Biting her lip, she decided there was no time like the present. She spun on her heel, peering up into his face, her green eyes wide and as innocent as she could make them appear.

* * *

For a long moment, she simply stared at him. His breath caught in his throat as he understood suddenly. "You," his words slid out in a gravelly whisper, "don't need a restroom, do you?"

Lydia shook her head, taking a step to close the distance between them.

"We shouldn't do this, Lydia," he advised, knowing even as he spoke those words that he was already doomed.

"You mean 'cause it's wrong, or because someone might find out?"

He was at a loss to answer, but he wanted to say something, with how her gaze kept dropping down to trace his lips.

"I won't tell if you won't, Mr. Hale," she murmured, reaching up to link her hands behind his neck.

He let out a sigh, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip for a long moment before his hand was on the small of her back, urging her body closer to his. "I think . . . for the time being, you should call me Peter."

A delighted whimper escaped her as his mouth crashed down on hers.


	2. If You Won't

**Yes, you read correctly in tbe summary, this fic is going to go beyond the end of this chapter.**

* * *

**. . . . If You Won't**

Mr. Hale . . . _Peter _broke the kiss, his breathing ragged as he swept her hair behind her shoulder.

Lydia's head fell back as he dragged his lips down the side of her throat. He'd kissed her so ravenously, his tongue plunging into her mouth like he was trying to devour her, but now, as he trailed his fingertips along her waist, teasingly dipping beneath her damp clothing to touch her skin, there was no rush. The tip of his tongue lapped over the pulse just below her ear and he leaned away from her, giving himself room to slip a hand between their bodies. The other he trailed low, along her thigh, gingerly inching beneath her skirt.

She trembled, expecting to feel his touch on her breasts any moment, but he was careful and delicate, deliberately avoiding them as he slowly unbuttoned her blouse. The fingers under her skirt wandered, as well. Rather than tugging her panties off, like she expected him to, he merely traced the elastic edges, making her skin tingle. He wasn't hurrying to get her naked, like some high school boy would.

A painful realization struck her. Peter Hale was a _man_ . . . he'd been with women, and she was just . . . a _girl_.

* * *

He felt her tense against him and he paused instantly. Pulling away, he tipped his chin down, capturing her gaze. "Are we having second thoughts?"

Of course she was having second thoughts—he'd just admitted he was eighteen years her senior. Beautiful girl like her was likely now thinking she'd flung herself into the arms of some sleazy_ old_ man.

To his surprise, she shook her head. "No, not really, it's just . . . ." She lowered her gaze, those huge green eyes raking the ruined tile floor. "I've only ever been with _boys_," she finally admitted with a shrug.

He had to force himself not to chuckle as he realized what she meant. Well, wasn't she the most adorable creature ever? No, if he seemed like he was laughing at her, this would end right here. And they were already down the rabbit hole, weren't they? No point in trying to claw their way out, better to simply enjoy the predicament in which they'd landed.

But who'd have thought the staggeringly confident Ms. Lydia Martin would consider herself so easily defeated?

Smiling warmly, charmingly, he crooked a finger under her chin, urging her to look up at him. "And you're worried you'll disappoint me?"

* * *

She nearly flinched. He didn't have to say it like _that_, but . . . . "Yes," she murmured, her tone cold; she didn't have to let him know how _much_ the idea—that there might be something at which she wasn't perfect—bothered her. "It's just . . . they don't expect much, but what if I . . . what if I don't know how to move right, or something, and they just didn't know any better?"

"Lydia?"

Grudgingly, she lifted her gaze to meet his again.

He raised a hand, but didn't break eye contact as he traced her lips with the tip of his finger. "I think you'll find that I'm a very good," he paused, slipping it between her lips, but only continued after she began sucking and nibbling at his skin, "very patient teacher."

* * *

Truly enticing and arousing, the way those huge, deceptively innocent eyes held his as her mouth worked the length of his finger as though it were . . . some _other_ part of his anatomy. "And _you_," his voice dropped to a gravelly whisper as he finished unbuttoning her blouse with his free hand and swept it open, "have always proven quite the capable student."

He slid his finger from her mouth, reading easily from her expression that she liked what he was suggesting. Unfortunately, reality chose this moment to dawn on him. "It seems this lesson, this . . . _first_ lesson, won't be as encompassing as either of us would like."

Her brow furrowed, but she remained silent, waiting for him to explain. Well, there was no way to put the problem delicately. "This situation is a text book example of the word _spontaneous_, as such, I am unprepared. I have no protection for this to progress as far as it could."

* * *

"I—" Lydia's shoulders slumped. "I don't, either." She usually had one in her purse—because a girl never knew where the end of the day might find her, and it was best to be prepared—but she'd given it to Allison for some rendezvous with that silly boyfriend of hers, Scott whatever-his-name-was.

Frowning, she dropped her gaze again as she grabbed the sides of her blouse to button it back up.

He caught her hands gently and she looked up at him in surprise.

"I don't recall saying our lesson was over."

Once more she simply furrowed her brow at him.

He walked backward, continuing until he was up on the dais. "I only said it can't progress as far as I would like, but . . . ." He took off his leather jacket and laid it down, covering the cold, dusty surface of the altar. "Far be it from me to send a lady away wanting."

She took a few, unsure steps in his direction. "What exactly do you have in mind, Mr. Hale?"

* * *

Perhaps there was a charm in her calling him by his surname, under the circumstances. "You're concerned that you might not move the right way? So, lesson one, I will teach you how to move." He stood pin straight with his feet shoulder width apart as he clasped his hands before him, the same stance he assumed when in front of the classroom.

"Take off your panties."

The look of surprise on her face was the most adorable, yet enticing, expression he'd ever seen.

When she made no move to comply, he restated the instruction, holding out a hand for the article in question. "Remove your panties."

A delicious blush flared in her cheeks as she finally gave a mute nod. Reaching down, she slid the frilly bit of satin down her legs and carefully stepped out of them.

She walked up to him slowly, uncertainly, and placed them in his waiting hand. Somehow, she managed to work even more off that precious, utterly beguiling surprise into her expression at the next words that fell from his lips.

"Now, up on the altar, on your hands and knees."

* * *

Derek frowned, wiping rain from his face as he neared the building. The wind had destroyed his umbrella five blocks back, but at least his camera was waterproof. The weather in Beacon Hills had been bone-dry for _weeks_, and St. Charles' was the only church in town he'd had yet to photograph in the rain. His final assignment—a series showcasing artificial majesty back-dropped by the majesty of nature—was due days ago. His professor allowed him to slide only because _nature_ seemed to be working against him.

When he'd made the decision to leave his car at the gym, he had no idea how bad the weather would turn while he walked to the church. Just as well; he hated driving in such crappy conditions.

As he approached, he noticed a car parked along the church's street that seemed familiar. But nah, that man had no reason to be in this neighborhood.

Shrugging, he wiped his face once more before uncapping the camera lens and rounding the stand of trees that largely blocked the view of the church from the street.

Derek stopped short. The lights in the building were on. _What the . . . ? _He'd have thought the electricity to the property would have been cut years ago.

Oh, well. It was none of his business; it didn't matter to him if someone was there. He wasn't doing anything wrong. He snapped his first shot and began circling the property, knowing he wouldn't be able to decide which angle was most idyllic until after he developed the photos.

* * *

He didn't tell her to, but Lydia instinctively arched her back. It was both horrifically embarrassing and unbelievably arousing to be like this before him. He stood behind her, and though she couldn't bear to even glance back at him, she knew he was looking at her . . . down _there_.

If she hadn't already been sure of that, the sound of approval he made in the back of his throat when she'd arched her back, lifting her bottom—and her already short skirt, no doubt giving him an unobstructed view of that most private part of her—would have cinched it for her.

"I'll ask you this only once, and please answer honestly, because if the answer is no, then it is something I shall have to correct before we proceed any further." He paused, and she had no idea what he was waiting for until she did, finally, look at him over her shoulder.

"Are you wet?"

Her cheeks flamed and she dropped her gaze again, unable to keep looking at him like this. She had no idea when she'd first gotten it in her head to kiss him—simply to see if he wanted her—that this was how they would find themselves.

But she also _really_ wanted to learn any lesson he was willing to teach her.

"Yes," she said after a moment, her uncharacteristically timid voice barely a thread of sound, nearly lost against the patter of rain beating against the stained glass windows.

She gasped, feeling her body clench automatically as he slid a finger inside of her.

* * *

He bit deep into his bottom lip as he entered her. She was so warm and moist, and _tight_ . . . even tighter, still, as her muscles clamped around his finger. If he had a little less self-control, he'd likely have found himself climbing onto the altar behind her and fucking her here and now, but . . . .

That would diminish all this lovely want and tension he was building, wouldn't it? Want and tension that would only grow each time she saw him standing in front of her class, each time she heard him speak in this same quiet, commanding tone.

He withdrew so that only the tip of his finger remained inside of her.

"Now, I am going to hold perfectly still and you are going to move. You do not simply let a man give you what _he_ thinks is pleasurable, you have to take it. Lydia, you are in control of this exercise. You will move, you will be in charge of how fast, or deep I go."

* * *

Lydia wasn't accustomed to being told what to do, but then . . . he wasn't telling her what to do, not _really_. He was telling her what she needed to do to get what she wanted.

Closing her eyes, she braced her palms against the leather-covered altar and rocked backward. She shuddered, barely keeping herself from moaning as his finger slid into her. For a moment, forgetting where she was, ignoring how she might look to him, became simple—all that mattered was how she felt.

And having him inside of her, no matter how fractionally, felt _good._

She pulled away and pushed back again a few more times, he really was holding perfectly still for her. But she wanted a little bit more; she wanted to give him something to think about whenever he saw her in his class.

More than that . . . she wanted him to have sit down, to have to hide a hard-on behind his desk, whenever she walked into his room.

She lowered onto her elbows, giving herself more leverage to push back against his hand. The change in position, slight though it was, forced him deeper.

* * *

He was positive Lydia realized she was toying with his self-control. The way her body clenched and quivered around his delving finger, the way her attempts to keep from making noise forced little ecstatic whimpers from her throat . . . . She _had_ to know what she was doing to him.

Yet, he refused to relinquish command of this situation. Yes, he was so hard right now that he strained against his jeans, yes, he wanted her here and now, but all in due time. Anticipation could only add to any future lessons.

"Tell me, Lydia, are you enjoying yourself?"

"Y-yes." The shy tremor in her voice as she forced out her answer was music to his ears.

Even more so the disappointed groan she gave when he withdrew from her.

She turned to face him, sitting on her knees. "Did I do something wrong?"

Well, now she was just playing with him. He smiled gently. "Oh, no. You did everything right."

"Then why did you—"

"You did what was necessary to enjoy yourself. When a woman is enjoying herself, when a woman is getting pleasure from the experience, she will always be at her best, no matter how experienced she, or her partner, is."

She watched, her expression dazed, as he lapped at the finger that had just been inside of her. Perhaps her naiveté was genuine.

"Then, when a gi—when a woman has sex with a guy, it's not about him, it's all about her?"

"Lesson learned," he said with a sly grin. "In fact, you did so well that I believe I should reward you."

She perked up instantly. Clearly the girl liked her rewards.

He tapped the very edge of the altar. "Sit here."

She inched forward until her legs dangled toward the floor. For a long moment, he simply stared at her, his gaze raking over her from head to toe. Even as much of a mess as she currently was from getting caught in the storm . . . .

He traced her jawline with gentle fingertips. "You do realize how breathtaking you are, don't you?"

Faking a shy pout, she shrugged as she briefly rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. "Maybe."

Pressing lightly against her shoulders until she lay on her back, he murmured, "You're lucky the innocent act is a turn-on."

He lifted one of her ankles, carefully removing her shoe and planting her heel against the edge of the altar. After repeating the process with her other leg, he pushed up her skirt so that she was displayed before him.

Peter looked at her face to find her eyes squeezed shut.

* * *

She trembled, he leaned so close that she felt the warmth of his breath ghosting over the slick, delicate flesh between her thighs.

"Lydia, look at me," he said in that quiet tone that made her want to bite her lip.

Forcing her eyes open, she met his gaze. She couldn't see what he was doing from her vantage point, but she could feel it, could feel the way his fingers delicately parted her, baring her completely to him.

"When you close your eyes, you're hiding. One should never hide from something they want. Tell me," he leaned closer, still, so that his lips brushed against that most sensitive piece of her as he spoke, "is this something you want?"

"Yes," she managed in a breathless whisper, uncertain of how she maintained eye contact as he grinned again before sealing his lips against her.

* * *

She tasted sweet. So sweet, in fact, that he actually pitied those idiot boys who'd only ever cared about what she could do for them—they had _no_ idea what they missed.

He suckled and lapped at her slowly, lazily, until she began to move beneath his ministrations. Even now as she moaned and squirmed against his mouth, there was still that delightful blush coloring her cheeks as she struggled to hold his gaze. For all of her seemingly impure tendencies, she actually was an adorably innocent thing.

Seductively innocent, really.

Sighing heavily, he flicked his tongue over her faster, in steady, circular motions until she couldn't stop herself from reaching down to clutch at his hair. She was trying to hold him all the more tightly to her as she rocked her hips.

Not that she needed to, he wasn't stopping until she was spent.

* * *

Her body tensed, and she gave a whine as one foot slipped from the altar, but he caught her leg, guiding it to rest over his shoulder. At last she couldn't stop her eyes from squeezing shut, her hips lifting as the orgasm crashed through her.

If her hands were free, she'd cover her face. Hiding from him, exactly as he said she was. There was no way she was going to be able to sit through his class ever again without remembering this, without squirming, without becoming wet—oh, how embarrassing—under his watchful, bright blue eyes.

* * *

He groaned deep in the back of his throat as she came. _Everything_ about her in this moment was simply so perfect. The gasps and moans that spilled from her lips, the way she trembled and shuddered beneath him, even the way her small, delicate fingers helplessly raked his scalp.

If he'd had even a moment of doubting future lessons earlier, he cast it to the wayside, now. As her orgasm ebbed, as she relaxed and returned to rocking against his tongue, he knew there was no way he wouldn't have _every _bit of her.

* * *

The lightening rain only brought a frown to Derek's face. Certainly, some of the pictures might be a mess because of the how heavy the downpour had been, how much the rainfall might have obscured the imagery of the abandoned church, but he didn't have enough, yet. He worried that the rain might stop completely before he managed to capture the perfect picture.

He had rounded the entire property and was coming around the side, nearly back at the entrance, again. Hopefully, the rain would hold out just long enough for him to finish getting his shots.

* * *

Peter helped her down from the altar and reclaimed his jacket as she busily straightened her clothing and slid her feet back into her shoes. She held her hand out expectantly, but he only grinned wickedly, dusting off the leather before slipping his arms through the sleeves.

"I do believe I'd like to hold onto these for the time being," he said playfully, making a show of wadding up her panties and tucking them into the jacket's inside pocket.

Lydia was mortified. What if . . . what if they got into a car crash or something and the paramedics found her panties in his pocket? She forced herself to think calm thoughts—the likelihood of something like that happening was probably very slim. That the possibility still existed bothered her, but she pushed the worry aside.

"For the time being," she echoed. "How long is that?"

"Until our next lesson." He was walking around her now, circling her slowly.

She didn't turn her head to watch him. "When will that be?"

"Perhaps it's best that we let that be spontaneous, as well. However, I'd suggest we both be _prepared_ for the eventuality."

In other words, they should _both_ start packing condoms every day . . . just in case.

"But then," she pointed out, aware that he stood very close behind her; she could feel the heat of his body against her back, "how will you be able to return my panties if you don't know when the next time will be?"

He shrugged and she could feel the motion of the gesture. "Perhaps I'll just have them with me all the time, as well. Perhaps." He leaned over her shoulder, whispering in her ear, "Perhaps you'll simply have to sit in class, listening to me, and watching me, while you wonder if I have them with me that particular day."

Her breath caught in her throat as she thought about what that would be like. She forced a sigh. If she'd thought he'd make her wet just being in class before . . . .

"Come along," he said suddenly, striding past her to retrieve his umbrella from the floor beneath the light switch. "I should get you home before you catch hypothermia from those damp clothes."

And now, barely five minutes after _that_ orgasm—far outshining anything any stupid boy ever made her feel— he wanted her to walk hurriedly to catch up to him. . . . _Of course, fantastic._

* * *

Derek backed up a bit more, trying to get just the right angle of the entrance. He was standing in the treeline, now. He only hoped it was an optimal vantage point.

As he snapped the first in this set of shots, the lights went out and the door of the church opened. Shrugging, he simply held off on the next shot. He was a little curious to see who'd been in there, sure, but he didn't want any people in the scene, crudding up what might well be the perfect picture.

His jaw dropped, and before he really knew it, he'd snapped a shot. He hadn't meant to, but . . . what the hell was his uncle doing here?

And the girl with him . . . . Clearly too young for him. He wanted to think _too beautiful_, but the poor thing looked like she'd been dragged through a car wash, so he couldn't be sure. Derek felt a strange blend of anger and disappointment coil in the pit of his stomach.

That second observation was probably just his immediate anger at his uncle wanting to give him more to be upset about. Was she one of his _students_?

He wanted to pretend what he was seeing could have an innocent explanation, but he'd recognize the girl's wobbly-kneed gait anywhere. He'd been the cause of it too many times, himself, not to know the reason on sight.

Was this the reason Peter Hale seemed to drive off all the women he dated? Why he balked at the _convention of marriage_? Did the man sabotage his relationships because he was having too much fun fucking high school girls?

Frowning darkly, Derek snapped another shot, and another. The girl looked familiar, but he couldn't place her just now; he'd probably seen her around town. He would figure out who she was, and put a stop to whatever she was doing with his uncle.

He would have evidence as soon as he developed these photos. The only question was, which of them would he confront?


	3. Disturbances

Readers may feel I'm portraying Erica Reyes OoC, but I stand by the fact that we never really got to see very much of Erica's true character. She seemed as though she could be a sweet and caring girl; it was there in the moments when she wasn't being all "Yay, I'm healthy and hot now, and 'oh, look, claws!'," power-trippy.

* * *

**Disturbances**

Erica frowned, glancing over her shoulder. He'd just let out another disgruntled sigh; the jarring sound of weights clanking tore through the gym again as Derek let them slip from his hands.

She shook her head, scooping up her towel to wipe sweat from her brow. When he'd walked in that night, she could tell his scowl was, well, _scowlier_ than usual and she'd wanted to ask him then what was wrong, after all they were friends. Except for those few months in which they'd been friends with benefits. She'd been on edge around him ever since dropping the benefits part. But he'd made it clear at the time that he'd not been looking for a girlfriend and if she got attached, things would have to end. So, when she found herself starting to feel attached, she told him it was over.

He hadn't even flinched. She'd hoped . . . maybe it didn't matter what she hoped he'd say or do; just something to let her know he saw their trysts as more than a really enjoyable workout. But it was for the best, she thought. If he didn't care to lose that supposedly intimate aspect of their relationship, then he clearly wasn't a guy worth giving her heart to

She wasn't sure she wanted to go over there, but they _were_ still friends. And the looks he was getting for the angry ruckus he was making were not at all pleasant. But she always wondered if he knew why she'd broken it off with him. Would he prefer that she keep her distance because to show she cared would remind him that she'd almost cared too much?

Sighing herself, she turned off her bike and hopped off, strolling casually toward the weights.

* * *

He growled under his breath, gripping the bar again.

"Okay, obviously you're pissed about something," he heard Erica's voice from behind him.

He turned, briefly holding up a finger as he explained. "I am not pissed. I'm . . . agitated."

"Call it what you want, you clearly can't focus."

This only further darkened his scowl as he rolled his eyes upward. She was right, of course. Here, he'd come to the gym to focus on something besides his uncle and that girl. Workouts were supposed to be simple, supposed to be a release and a distraction from the rest of the world, but no. All he could see in his head was that tiny redhead traipsing along beside her uncle, like a child following a stranger who'd offered her candy.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Shaking his head, Derek ran his hands over his face. He knew she was only trying to help, but he didn't even know where to begin with this problem. He certainly couldn't talk to anyone about it, either.

"Thanks, Erica, but it's kind of not something I can share," he said quietly.

"Oh, okay," she offered a small, concerned smile, her brown eyes enormous. "But . . . can I just say that if there's anything you can do about whatever it is, maybe the sooner the better, since you clearly aren't going to be able to think about anything else 'til you do."

Almost instantly he appeared to relax, his shoulders sloping a little and a bit of tension fading from his expression. "You're right," he nodded, dropping a kiss on her cheek. "Thanks, Erica."

He ignored that her smile faltered when his lips brushed her skin. He really hoped she didn't read too much into the gesture; he was only trying to get them back to where they were before they'd slept together. She was just so nervous around him since they stopped . . . _benefiting_ from their friendship. He had been sure she mistakenly thought he was developing feelings, so he let it go.

As he headed to the lockerroom to grab his things, he refrained from looking back at her—if she did have the wrong impression, a backward glance would only reinforce it. But he wondered briefly . . . Erica was seventeen, probably about the same age as that redhead. Oh, God, what if the two girls were even classmates?

Did his history with Erica make him no better than his uncle?

Derek gave his head a rough shake, letting his sweats fall around his ankles and stepping out of them to pull on a pair of black jeans. No. He was only twenty-three. Six years wasn't a big deal, the only reason it even seemed a problem was due to their _current_ ages. If she were twenty and he was twenty-six, no one would think on it for a moment.

His_thirty-five _year old uncle, however? Different story.

He couldn't ask Erica who she was, because that would only prompt Erica to ask the dreaded question of why he needed to know. However, it did give him an idea of how he might learn the mystery girl's identity on his own.

* * *

With one of the freshly developed photos in hand, Derek sat at his desk, dropping the image, and his sister's yearbook, in front of him. Not that he'd felt good about going to his mother's house while no one was home and sneaking around Cora's room to find it, but he would return the book tomorrow, and he couldn't have imagined how he would explain needing it.

Maybe he'd get lucky, and she wouldn't be in these pages. Maybe she was simply a young-looking college student.

But that hope was shot down nearly as soon as he opened the book. Within the first few pages there was a picture of the redheaded girl he'd seen with Peter yesterday evening. And then another, and another. Hell, she was everywhere. Either she loved the attention, or the camera loved her. Whichever the case, he'd been right. The words ran through his head before he could think them through—this girl _was_ too beautiful for his uncle.

Frowning and pushing the thought away, he looked beneath one of the pictures. This one . . . he couldn't seem to look away from, not for long, anyway. Something about the image simply drew his gaze back again and again. The shot was a well-lit black and white of the girl absorbed in a chessgame; her long hair swept back in a tight ponytail, giving her large eyes an alluring almond shape, and her full lips pouted thoughtfully as small, delicate fingers pinched the head of a pawn.  
_Lydia Martin, Senior Chess Team._

"Lydia," he said quietly, nodding to himself as he held his photo closer to the yearbook page so there was no mistake.

Now he only had to figure out how to discretely approach the girl and convince her that being involved with Peter Hale was a bad idea. Hopefully, without his uncle finding out.

* * *

Lydia tossed and turned beneath her quilt. Every time she thought she was nodding off, she snapped awake again. She'd had trouble sleeping last night, too. There was the constant feeling of eyes on her, of simply not being alone when she _knew_ no one else was around.

That was probably paranoia, she told herself. Her subconscious was making her think everyone knew what had happened between her and Mr. Hale simply by looking at her. That had to be why she kept feeling like if she glanced over her shoulder in an empty room, she'd find someone there—suddenly, without warning—glaring suspiciously at her.

Exhaustion washed over her once more and she forced a stretch, nuzzling her cheek into her pillow as she settled against the mattress once more, her limbs feeling light, her body weightless.

Such a pleasant sensation. She drew in a sleepy sigh. Moments of quiet stillness drifted past before the thought floated across her sleep-fogged mind that she must've been thinking about Mr. Hale—about _Peter_. Those blue eyes, the gravely pitch of his voice . . . the feel of his mouth suckling at her, drawing on her.

Even in slumber, she trembled beneath the blanket. The memory gave way to the imagined sensation of hands moving over her. Delicate and warm, fingertips trailed along her skin. She writhed just a little, trying to press more closely to them.

Why couldn't more dreams be like this?

She stretched again, beneath the trailing fingertips, smiling sleepily. They dipped and traced, sliding up beneath her nightshirt to cup her breasts, sinking low to slip teasingly between her thighs.

An itch tickled the bridge of her nose then. Frowning, she lifted a hand, scratching away the irritation, mildly upset that such a lovely dream was interrupted.

Lydia's breath caught in her throat and she froze instantly. The hands hadn't stopped . . . and . . . she hadn't _had_ to wake up to scratch her nose.

She'd never really fallen asleep in the first place, yet the unseen fingers continued to stroke along her flesh.

Eyes snapping open, she shot up in bed. Switching on her bedside lamp, she threw her blanket onto the floor.

Nothing . . . nothing was there. She shook her head, trying to calm harsh, panicked breaths. Of course there was nothing here, what else did she expect?

But she _hadn't _dreamed that just now. Reaching out, she ran trembling fingers along the sheet. She quickly snatched her hand back. Beside where she'd been laying, where the sheet should be cool to the touch, the material was warm.

As though someone had been next to her.

Her gaze leaped frantically about the room as she shakily retrieved the quilt and pulled it tightly around her shoulders. She was alone, and yet something had been in the bed _with_ her mere moments ago. Something that touched her like . . . .

Like a lover.


	4. Uncertainty

**Uncertainty**

Lydia fidgeted in her seat, trying hard to ignore Mr. Hale's piercing blue eyes as they darted about the room, from random student to random student while he gave a passionate lecture about . . . something. She was really too distracted with her attempts to block out her memories of the last week to focus on his words.

Not that she really wanted to block it out, but she certainly didn't want to think about it while sitting in Peter Hale's classroom.

He'd not given any indication whatsoever that he intended to continue their lessons. He didn't even seem to look at her any differently the day after than he had the day _before_ he'd buried his face between her thighs and made her come harder than she'd ever experienced.

_Dammit!_ Lydia dropped her gaze to the book open in front of her, her cheeks hot. So much for trying not to think about it.

Her imagination was giving her enough problems already, wasn't it? With the bizarrely real waking dreams of unseen hands stroking over her skin before she fell asleep at night, and that sensation of being watched that seemed to drift in and out of her awareness as it pleased.

She shifted in her seat again, embarrassed further to feel a telltale dampness as she crossed her legs. Luckily, the bell rang then, relieving her anxiety over having to stay in his indifferent presence for a moment longer.

"Please leave your papers from the weekend assignment on my desk on your way out," he reminded and the class gave a collective groan as they all dropped back into their seats to dig the aforementioned piece of homework from their bags.

In a way, Lydia was grateful. The stall gave her a chance to better herself before having to stand and walk to the library for her free period before her afterschool Latin Club meeting. She retrieved her assignment and stood, filing through the rows of desks behind her classmates. If she'd been a few seconds quicker, she'd already be out in the hall and free of the unfortunately pleasing sight of Mr. Hale, rather than at the back of the line and dreading reaching the front of the room with each step.

Their little tryst was supposed to have been exciting and fun, and maybe a little bit dangerous, not the cause of anxiety attacks.

Finally, she reached the desk and dropped her paper down with the rest, but he wasn't seated there, as she expected. She'd been too wrapped up in staring at her shoes as she'd walked to actually notice where he was.

She turned to leave and nearly stopped in her tracks, her eyes widening. There he stood by the door, nodding to each student as they exited.

Lydia didn't realize her steps had slowed. She didn't realize that by the time she was a few feet from him, she was the only student left in the room.

And those blue eyes were locked on hers.

Gripping her hands around the strap of her messenger bag, she forced a gulp down her throat and offered a short, lifeless nod. "Mr. Hale."

He nodded back, before glancing over his shoulder into the hallway. She wasn't certain what he was looking for, but he seemed satisfied with whatever he saw and nodded again—this time to himself—and swung the door closed.

He flicked the lock into place before strolling along the wall. The silence was deafening as he halted a mere ten feet from the door and turned on a heel to look at her. Inhaling deeply, he tipped his head to one side and crooked a finger, beckoning her.

Blinking as the realization dawned, Lydia glanced over her shoulder at the windows. The shades were drawn—Mr. Hale never drew the shades in the classroom, but today he had, and she failed to notice because of how preoccupied she'd been. Moving her gaze to the door, she watched small pane of glass as she slowly approached him and soon realized . . . he was standing in a blind-spot.

When she continued to seem uncertain, he cracked a sly half-grin, reaching into his jacket and retrieving a wad of satin from the inside pocket. "Have you been wondering about these?" he murmured, unfolding the material so she couldn't mistake that he held the pair of panties he'd claimed hostage at the church.

A relieved sigh hissed from between her lips—she almost hadn't been certain what to expect from him until this moment—her bag slipping to the floor as she closed the distance between them. She twined her arms around his neck as he lowered his head, his mouth crashing hungrily down on hers.

* * *

She made the most delightful whimpering moan and he broke the kiss, pressing a finger to her lips as he looked into her eyes. "Shhhh, Ms. Martin, we'll need to be _very_ quiet while classes are in session," he said in a teasing whisper.

Nodding, she turned in his arms, snatching her panties from his hand and stepping away from him to tuck them away safely in the bottom of her bag. "One period, you're not giving us much time, are you?" She pulled out something else.

His smiled again as she returned to him and held up a shiny square in front of his eyes. Clearly she still wanted him, he was concerned that she would be scared off. Well, now he couldn't have that, at least not before he'd had_ her_.

"Actually," he took the condom, tapping her on the nose with the foil package before tucking it into his back pocket, "if you've been thinking about our previous lesson during class, then you should be quite ready without much . . . coaxing."

Lydia lifted her chin defiantly, waiting for the sudden ringing of the late bell to die away before responding. "Maybe I have, maybe I haven't."

His expression darkened a little and he grabbed her wrist, startling her as he quickly spun her, putting her back against his chest. "Now, now, Lydia," his voice dropped to that gravely pitch that made her want to do whatever he asked. "Hasn't anyone ever taught you to be honest with your teachers?"

Peter pushed her skirt out of the way with his free hand and tugged down her panties. She clamped her mouth shut, holding in a moan as his fingers slid between warm, damp folds.

* * *

She gave a little jump when something in his pants shivered violently against her bottom.

His head fell back as he groaned out a mirthless laugh. "You've gotta be kidding me."

With a sigh, Lydia stepped away from those wonderful, distracting fingers and spun to face him, folding her arms under her breasts as she watched him slip his cell phone from his front pants pocket. He frowned at the screen as it continued to vibrate in his hand.

"Something wrong?"

He shook his head uncertainly, saying quietly as he clicked to answer the call, "It's my landlord."

"Hello?"

Lydia listened as she smoothed her skirt back into place and fluttered her hands over her hair, making sure the sleek strawberry strands weren't mussed.

"What? You can't be serious! Yes, yes, I'll be right there."

The sudden mix of anger, surprise and agitation in his tone alarmed her. "Is everything okay?"

His frown only darkened as he slipped his phone back into his pocket. "Someone broke into my apartment. He noticed the lock was busted and the door was ajar."

Lydia's eyebrows shot into her bangs. A break-in in Beacon Hills? And in broad daylight, no less? "Um," she said nervously as she stepped close to him and reached up, using the corner of her sleeve to wipe her lipstick from his mouth. "Shouldn't you call the police?"

Peter stared at her as she delicately ran the cottony material across his lips. "He said he already did, they're on their way, but I need to go take inventory so I can report whatever might have been taken."

She nodded, offering a small, tight-lipped smile as she turned the hem of her sleeve inside out to hide the red smear. "Okay."

Holding in a sigh, he returned to the front of the classroom and began gathering up his things.

Lydia wasted little time in checking her reflection in her compact as she hoisted her bag over her shoulder and started for the door. Just as she unlocked it and turned the knob, he called her name.

Aware that standing at the door as she was, anyone walking the hall might hear her, she looked over her shoulder at him and obediently asked, "Yes, Mr. Hale?"

His gaze shot to the little window in the door before he waved a finger in the air, indicating the two of them. "This isn't over," he whispered, his tone controlled so that even she, a few feet from him, just barely heard his words.

Clearing her throat, Lydia determinedly willed her cheeks not to blush as she nodded and finally stepped out into the corridor.

* * *

Derek paced in the back of the Beacon Hills High School library. He felt . . . wrong, like a stalker or something. He couldn't account for when his uncle would be seeing Lydia Martin again. However, he knew Peter's schedule and, thanks to a hushed discussion with Cora's boyfriend, Stiles—which just may have included threats of violence if he didn't keep Derek's interest in Lydia to himself—he now had a basic diagram of Lydia's class schedule.

Apparently, before meeting Cora, Stiles, too, had shown some stalker tendencies in regards to this girl.

He also didn't feel incredibly good about lying to get into the school, but he needed a plausible explanation in case the staff mentioned his visit to Peter. An alumni of Beacon Hills going through the old yearbooks in the library's archive as he searched for inspiration for a photography class project seemed to satisfy curiosity. That, and smiling charmingly at female staff members as he hinted he should include their _pretty faces_ in his work, seemed to stifle whatever else they might think to ask.

Peter had a prep period now, and Lydia had nothing scheduled after his uncle's class. That was far too convenient. Derek didn't want to risk giving the couple time to get themselves in anymore trouble.

And so he _might_ have just sneaked into his uncle's building on his way here and busted the lock on the man's apartment door to create a diversion. He'd made plenty of noise, too, before rushing out so that the damage would be discovered.

Sighing, he puffed out his cheeks and shook his head. He couldn't believe he'd gone that far, but he had no idea how else to guarantee getting the girl alone while removing his uncle from the scene, entirely.

Shifting the 1940 yearbook he held open in his hands, supporting his cover story, Derek glanced at his watch. Somebody should've called Peter by now. So where was the girl? Stiles swore she spent every free period here with her pretty little nose stuck in some ridiculously thick book or another.

It was so quiet here, not even a librarian. According to the school secretary, she'd called in sick today so he would be stuck looking for what he needed himself. He ignored that the look the woman gave him made him think she wanted him to ask her for assistance. The droop in her shoulders when he assured her he'd be fine searching on his own certainly cinched that observation.

But even so, the room felt too silent, the word_ eerie_ came to mind. Did the other students even know the school had a library?

He was so wrapped up in his musings over how quiet it was that the first actual sound—the door creaking open—gave him a start. Peering around the long rows of shelves, he saw a petite strawberry blonde traipse in, tossing her bag on the nearest table and noisily pulling out a chair.

He guessed she usually was the only person here, if she was so obviously used to being noisy in a library.

She heaved a loud, exasperated sigh as she fished a text from her bag and cracked it open. The girl turned her gaze to the words before her, sending the room into silence, again.

Derek was almost frozen in place. Not out of fear, but uncertainty. Now that she was here, and he'd been waiting for a near week, plotting over and over again in his head just how he would broach this very awkward subject with a complete stranger, he wasn't at all sure how to proceed.

Better to just get this over with. If he stalled, he might lose the opportunity to catch her alone, and he really didn't want to go through all this nonsense again. Nodding to himself, he softly closed the dusty old book in his hands and walked along the shelves until the library opened out before him.

She glanced over her shoulder quickly, too quick to actually see that he wasn't another student and went back to her reading.

He approached the table, wondering briefly what she must be thinking—there were five other tables, if he insisted on sitting at this one, then he was probably just _another_ of her admirers. When Derek had asked Stiles how he might speak to Lydia Martin alone, it came out that she was the not-so-secret crush of half the male students in the school. Her best friend Allison was the focus of the other half, apparently. The boy wasn't surprised that the curvy little redhead had managed to catch the attention of a college guy.

Stiles own presumption had saved Derek from explaining, and from, of course, leveling more threats.

"Lydia?"

The wide green eyes that lifted to meet his nearly knocked the wind out of him. Definitely, he thought again, definitely too pretty for his uncle. That gaze flickered over him and those pouty lips dropped open in a small _o_ of surprise.

She plastered a sweet smile on her face. "I don't know you, do I?" Giving him another once-over she added, "You're clearly not a student here."

Setting his book down on the table, he drew out the chair beside hers and sat, maintaining eye contact the entire time. "No, you don't know me, and no, I'm not a student here."

"You know my name, but we haven't met and you _don't _belong here." She seemed unruffled, returning her attention to her text and flipping to the next page. "Am I going to need to call the security guard?"

He shook his head, glancing around as he pulled his bag up onto the table in front of him. "Nope. Just need to speak with you, is all."

"Hmph," Lydia forced out the sound with a short giggle. "You and half the boys in Beacon Hills."

"Not just the boys," he hinted, his tone low and sprinkled with the faintest dusting of anger.

His words, not his tone, made Lydia look at him again, those eyes once more enormous as she stared at him. "I'm not sure I know what you mean."

* * *

He leaned so close that she could feel his breath on her skin, holding her gaze as he blindly dug into his bag. "Oh, really?"

Lydia forced a gulp down her throat as she nodded stiffly. Clearly this man—this very, _very_ pretty man, with his thick black hair, intense dark green eyes and strangely well-kept five o'clock shadow—was delusional. Or at least that was how she was going to spin this, if necessary. Even men with broad shoulders, who fit the _tall, dark and handsome_ bill so perfectly could be crazy.

From the corner of her eye, she could see him extract a manilla envelope. A dark frown, that she somehow found familiar tugged at his lips as he held the envelope up between them.

"What is that?" Anger edged it's way into her voice now, too, but she refused to touch the envelope.

"Take a look," he insisted.

Rolling her eyes, she snatched the envelope from his hand—deliberately ignoring the little tingling sensation from her fingers brushing his—and all but tore the thing open. She slipped out the black and white photo, blinking rapidly at the image for a few moments. "What the hell is . . . ." A spot of cold started in the pit of her stomach and radiated outward as she started at the picture of her and Mr. Hale, looking a little _too_ comfortable holding onto each other, as they exited that stupid church.

The color drained from her face entirely as she looked back at the man seated beside her. "Who are you and what do you want from me?" Most people knew her family was rich—hell, if Beacon Hills had a Princess, it would be her—was this blackmail?

* * *

He put his hand over hers, lowering the picture to the table to be certain he had her undivided attention. "My name is Derek Hale." He told himself he was to agitated, too focused, to notice that her skin was very warm, and soft beneath his.

"Hale?" she echoed in a squeak.

Derek nodded, suddenly feeling a twinge of regret for startling this girl, but it was for the best. She was still young enough that this . . . _mistake_ she was making with Peter could be stopped; it didn't have to become a thing that would ruin her life. Looking into her eyes—those huge eyes that seemed so innocent—only steeled his resolve.

"Yeah, _Hale_. And I want you to stop seeing my uncle."


	5. Complicating Matters

Chapter Five

Complicating Matters

Lydia drew a shuddering breath as she stared down at the photo. "We're—" her voice trembled, so she took another breath and tried again. "We're not seeing each other."

Frowning, Derek muttered thinly, "I was trying to phrase it politely."

Green eyes lifted, blinking up at him. "No, I mean we haven't . . . we only fooled around a little." Okay, she was downplaying it—dramatically so, but he didn't need to know that—but they certainly hadn't done what his nephew was implying.

He also didn't need to know about what she and Peter had been interrupted from in the classroom just fifteen minutes earlier.

"Well, good. If it's not serious, then you won't have any problem stopping."

"What are you planning to do?"

Derek let out a sigh, looking up at the ceiling a moment. "I actually wasn't _planning_ to doanything. I thought—I hoped—I could speak to you, make you realize that your secret isn't a secret. You have to know that if I found out, other people could, too. All I want is for you to end things with him."

"That's it?"

He nodded.

Now it was Lydia's turn to sigh. She hated being forced into decisions, however, she knew that she and Peter weren't emotionally invested in their meetings. But what was she going to tell him the next time he got her alone?

It dawned on her then why Derek Hale had chosen the notably more awkward path of approaching a complete stranger, rather than try to broach the subject with his own uncle.

She tapped the image of Peter as she pouted thoughtfully. "You don't want ___him _to know that you know, do you?"

Almost before Derek realized it, he was explaining his situation. "Look, my dad walked out when my mom was pregnant with my little sister. Peter—my mom's younger brother—stepped in to help. For a while, we were very close. I think it would hurt him more than help him if he knew I was aware of your relationship." He scowled, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Wow, I could have simply agreed with you; why did I tell you all that?"

The girl's eyes were wide—obviously she'd wondered the same thing. "Maybe I've just got one of those faces," she said with a mystified shrug.

He frowned, but could only give a half-nod as he pinched a corner of the photo. It had to be something about her that was turning him into an over-sharing idiot-Derek had never been one for spilling personal details.

"So what's your answer?"

Lydia's gaze fell to the picture, unsure of her emotions as she replied, "I'll . . . stop what's going on with your uncle and me." She didn't have feelings for Peter, not really, but that didn't mean she didn't care that it could wreck his life, were anyone else to find out about them—a very real possibility in a community like Beacon Hills.

Strangely, she was also not entirely comfortable with the knowledge that to continue would cause pain to the man seated beside her. Now she was being stupid, she didn't know Derek from Adam, why should she care about his feelings?

"Thank you."

He stood, but her hand closed over his, preventing him from reclaiming the photo just yet. "Can I ask how you got this picture?"

God, he just wanted to leave and get as far from this girl as possible. He wanted to remove himself from the way he couldn't help noticing that her full lips pulled into a pout whenever she thought things over, from the disproportionate wave of relief he felt at learning that she'd not had sex with Peter—from the nagging sense that his relief had to do with _more_ than just protecting his uncle's career and reputation.

However, he understood that he should have realized this would be an obvious question for anyone to ask. With another sigh, he explained about his photography project. He already felt enough like a stalker that he wanted to make the simple, but astounding coincidence of him simply being in the right place, at the right time, absolutely clear to her.

"Oh, sounds like it'll be an amazing layout. It's a good thing you can't use this one. Looks like you smudged the print during development."

"What?" That was ridiculous, he never would make such a mistake.

He sat down again, scooting the chair closer to peer at the photo over her shoulder. Now that she was pointing it out—and he no longer had to be distracted by the blood-boiling foreground image of his uncle with her—he could see a strangely misplaced shadow trailing behind her.

"What is that?" He leaned closer, unaware that his cheek almost brushed hers as he examined the strange, inky blotch.

His confusion set off alarm bells in Lydia's head. She wasn't certain why, only that they were the kind of alarms that raised the fine hairs on the back of her neck. "You've never had something like this happen before?"

Derek shook his head. "A mark like this would have to be on the negative. Something ___had _to have been there, behind you, that night. It almost looks like . . . hold on." He turned to retrieve something from his bag, accidentally bumping her with his shoulder.

He looked back at her to apologize, finally realizing how close they'd been sitting as the maneuver brought him face-to-face with her. She let out a sharp little breath, and he could feel it tickle across his bottom lip.

"Sorry," he said, his voice barely audible.

She could only nod as he turned away and resumed his search. A moment later, he produced a red pen. Shifting to once more sit beside her, he traced the shadowy, elongated blob.

The dark, spectral form following her from the church—too far away, and too dark, to be her own shadow, and near nothing that could create that shape— looked vaguely like a ___person_.

Lydia stared at it, her world going a little dim as she wrapped her arms around herself. The feeling of being watched, that awareness of a person standing behind her when she was all alone, and the memory of those nighttime phantom caresses all caved in on her. Things her grandmother once told her—things she'd ignored, things she'd pushed away for so many years that she'd forgotten them until this moment—echoed dully in her ears.

* * *

"You can't be serious," Derek said in a low tone, his voice heavy with disbelief as he allowed her to drag him through the parking lot.

Lydia just kept walking, shaking her head as she determinedly tugged him by the wrist. "I've never been more serious in my life. You say it's gotta be on the negatives, well, I want to see them. Now."

"Why do you need to—"

"I don't want to say, you'll think I'm crazy."

"Yes, 'cause dragging a man you just met around and demanding that he take you back to his apartment is something completely sane women do all the time."

She halted instantly, her little shoulders slumping as she turned to face him. "You've got a point, but I really can't . . . ." Damn, he was even prettier in daylight. What was wrong with her today? Derek Hale was driving her nuts, and she'd only just met him.

Shaking her head, she powered on. "Okay, I'll make you a deal. If that shadow is on the negative, I'll tell you why I wanted to see it. If it isn't, then it won't matter, 'cause it'll mean you _did_ somehow smudge your print, and I _am_ just crazy."

"Alright," he said after a few seconds' thought. "But my car's on the other side of the lot."

"Oh, well then," she relinquished her hold on his wrist, forcing a tiny smile as she made an ___after you_gesture.

In the car ride across town, Lydia broke the tense, awkward silence by calling Allison to cover her absence from their club meeting. She fell back on an old reliable excuse, going to run an errand with her mother—it would explain her car still being in the lot, if anyone looked.

Each ignored that they kept catching the other glancing at them from the corner of their eye. God, Lydia had never been so acutely, distinctly, aware of another person's closeness before in her life. It brought on the oddest sense . . . .

As though the world outside of the car didn't exist for a moment.

* * *

Lydia wasn't surprised to trip over magazines with nutrition and fitness headlines dominating the covers spilling through the mail slot as they stepped through the door, or the home weight machine tucked into a corner of his living room. Well, not after he'd taken off his jacket and tossed in onto the couch, that is. The long-sleeved sable shirt he wore was a loose fit, yet it still managed to showcase well-defined pectoral muscles.

She nearly slapped herself—what was it about this man that made her have to struggle to think about anything other than how attractive he was?

"This way," he led her to a narrow room in the back of the apartment, that she could see from movies she'd watched was his dark room.

She stood near the door as he rummaged through strips of film negatives. After gently placing a few aside, Lydia realized with how delicate he appeared to be with his work, he was right. There was no way he would have damaged a print during development.

He held up a new strip up to the light, examining it closely. "Lydia?"

The process had been so quiet due to his carefulness that she jumped at the sound of her name. "What?"

Glancing back at her he nodded toward the negatives. "Come look for yourself."

She didn't want to look. That wasn't true, exactly. She did, but she also didn't, because she was afraid of something being there, and of something _not_ being there, equally. Nodding, she wiped suddenly clammy palms on her skirt and crossed the meager space. As though it was the most natural thing in the world, she ducked under his arm, placing herself directly in front of Derek to peer up at the negative against the light.

There it was—the disjointed human shape, appearing to amble after her in the inverted image. Lydia's body sagged back, a resistance behind her was the only thing that kept her legs from going out from under her.

"Whoa, whoa," Derek said in a quick, surprised breath as he set the negatives down and placed his hands on her shoulders, steadying her again.

Strangely, only feeling the rumble of his words against her back as he'd spoken reminded her that _he_ was what had prevented her from falling a second ago.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, hating that her voice sounded so weak.

Shaking his head, he maintained a hold on her with one hand, as he reached out with the other, pulling a stool over. "Here, sit."

She nodded, grasping his hands for support as he guided her into the seat.

He knelt down in front of her, looking up into her face. The color was entirely drained from her face, worrying him a little. "Are you okay?"

Now this was just wrong, a little voice in the back of Lydia's head grumbled. He barely knew her, how could he possibly be genuinely concerned?

She gave a short nod, her eyes drifting closed. "Yeah, I just need a second."

After forcing a few deep breaths, willing her suddenly jittery nerves to calm, she opened her eyes to find that he hadn't moved a muscle. He was still watching her, still looking just as concerned as he had a moment ago.

"Why don't we go sit in the living room? Feels a little cold in here."

Again, she nodded as he helped her to stand, hardly in a position to argue when he kept an arm around her shoulders as he led her back through the apartment.

She didn't seem any steadier, he thought, as he set her on the couch. Some of the color had returned to her cheeks, so at least that was a good sign. As he slid his arm from her, he felt her shiver.

Frowning, he grabbed his jacket and—not allowing her time to protest—draped it around her.

Lydia met his gaze with a shocked expression.

He only shrugged, sitting on the coffee table to face her. "You're still cold." When she could work up no response, he leaned toward her, speaking gently—something about her current state just made her seem so fragile to him. "This has to do with that shadow, doesn't it?"

Nodding, she dropped her gaze into her lap, but couldn't bring herself to speak.

Crooking a finger under her chin, he lifted her face, bringing her eyes back to his. "I believe we had a deal," he reminded, letting his hand fall away from her.

"You're right," she muttered. Drawing a deep breath, she exhaled slowly and forced herself to sit up straight, the weight of his leather jacket around her shoulders oddly comforting. "Have you ever seen ghost photos?"

He bit his lip for a moment. In a way, he felt he should have realized that's where this was going. Whether or not he _believed_ in apparitions showing up on film . . . well, jury was still out on that. The photo and negative bearing a ghostly image in his dark room, notwithstanding.

"I've seen a few, yes. So that's why you're so shaken up? 'Cause there was a ghost near you?"

Lydia shook her head. "No, because I think one is _following_ me."


End file.
